From the Spectator Thursday, Septembr 13, 1711
No. 169
[Addison]
Sic vita erat; facile omnes perferre ac pati:
Cum quibus erat cungue una, his sese dedere,
Eorum obsequi studiis; advorsus nemini;
Nunquam praeponens se aliis: Ita facillime
Sine invidia invenias laudem.--Ter. Andr.
Man is subject to innumerable Pains and Sorrows by the very
Condition of Humanity, and yet, as if Nature had not sown
evils enough in Life, we are continually adding Grief to Grief,
and aggravating the common Calamity by our cruel Treatment
of one another. Every Man's natural Weight of Affliction
is still made more heavy by the Envy, Malice, Treachery,
or Injustice of his Neighbour. At the same time that the
Storm beats upon the whole Species, we are falling foul upon
one another.
Half the Misery of Human Life might be extinguished,
would Men alleviate the general Curse they lie under, by
mutual Offices of Compassion, Benevolence and Humanity.
There is nothing therefore which we ought more to encourage
in our selves and others than the Disposition of Mind which
in our Language goes under the Title of Good-nature, and
which I shall chuse for the Subject of this Day's Speculation.
Good-nature is more agreeable in Conversation than Wit,
and gives a certain Air to the Countenance which is more
amiable than Beauty. It shows Virtue in the fairest Light,
takes off in some measure from the Deformity of Vice, and
makes even Folly and impertinence supportable.
There is no Society of Conversation to be kept up in the
World without Good-nature, or something which must bear
its Appearance, and supply its Place. For this Reason Mankind
have been forced to envent a kind of Artificial Humanity,
which is what we express by the Word Good-Breeding. For
if we examine thoroughly the Idea of what we call so, we shall
find it to be nothing else but an Imitation and Mimickry of
Good-nature, or in other Terms, Affability, Complaisance and
Easiness of Temper reduced into Art.
These exterior Shows and Appearances of Humanity render
a Man wonderfully pupolar and beloved, when they are
founded upon a real Good-nature; but without it are like
Hypocricy in Religion, or a bare Form of Holiness, which,
when it is discovered, makes a Man more detestable than
professed Impiety.
Good-nature is generally born with us: Health, Prosperity
and kind Treatment from the World are great Cherishers of it
where they find it, but nothing is capable of forcing it up,
where it does not grow of itself. It is one of the Blessings of a
happy Constitution, which Education may improve but not
produce.
Xenophon in the Life of his Imaginary Prince, whom he
describes as a Pattern for Real ones, is always celebrating the
Philanthrophy or Good-nature of his Hero, which he tells us he
brought into the World with him, and gives many remarkable
Instances of it in his Childhood, as well as in all the several
Parts of his Life. Nay, on his Death-bed, he describes him as
being pleased, that while his Soul returned to him who made
it, his Body should incorporate with the great Mother of all
things, and by that means become beneficial to Mankind. For
which reason, he gives Sons a positive Order not to enshrine
it in Gold or Silver, but to lay it in Earth as soon as the
Life was gone out of it.
An Instance of such an Overflowing of Humanity, such an
exuberant Love to Mankind, could not have entered into the
Imagination of a Writer, who had not a Soul filled with great
Ideas, and a general Benevolance to Mankind.
In that celebrated Passage of Salust, where Caesar and Cato
are placed in such beautiful, but opposite Lights; Caesar's
Character is chiefly made up of Good-nature, as it show'd it
self in all its Forms towards his Friends or hid Enemies, his
Servants or Dependants, the Guilty or the Distressed. As
for Cato's Character, it is rather awful than amiable. Justice
seems most agreeable to the Nature of God, and Mercy to that
of Man. A Being who has nothing to Pardon in himself,
may reward every Man according to his Works; but he whose
very best Actions must be seen with Grains of Allowance,
cannot be too mild, moderate, or forgiving. For this reason,
among all the monstrous Characters in Human Nature, there
is none so odious, nor indeed so exquisitely Ridiculous, as that
of a rigid severe Temper in a Worthless Man.
This Part of Good-nature, however, which consists in the
pardoning and over-looking of Faults, is to be exercised only
in doing our selves Justice, and that too in the ordinary
Commerce and Occurrences of Life; for in the Publick
Administration of Justice, Mercy to one may be Cruelty to
others.
It is grown almost into a Maxim, that Good-natured Men
are not always Men of the most Wit. This Observation, in
my Opinion, has no Foundation in Nature. The greatest Wits
I have conversed with, are Men eminent for their Humanity.
I take therefore this Remark to have been occasioned by two
Reasons. First, Because Ill-nature among ordinary Observers
passes for Wit. A spightful Saying gratifies so many little
Passions in those who hear it, that it generally meets with a
good Reception. The Laugh rises upon it, and the Man who
utters it is look'd upon as a shrewd Satyrist. This may be
one Reason why a great many pleasant Companions appear so
surprizingly dull, when they have endeavoured to be Merry
in Print; the Publick being more just than Private Clubs or
Assemblies, in distinguishing between what is Wit and what
is Ill-nature.
Another Reason why the Good-natured Man may sometimes
bring his Wit in Question, is, perhaps, because hi is apt
to be moved with Compassion for those Misfortunates or
Infirmities, which another would turn into Ridicule, and by that
Means gain the Reputation of a Wit. The Ill-natured Man,
though but of equal Parts, gives himself a larger Field to
expatiate in, he exposes those Failings in Human Nature which
the other would cast a Veil over, laughs at Vices which the
other either excuses or conceals, gives Utterance to Reflections
which the other stifles, falls indifferently upon Friends or
Enemies, exposes the Person who has obliged him, and in short
sticks at nothing that may establish his Character of a Wit.
It is no wonder therefore he succeeds in it better than the
Man of Humanity, as a Person who makes use of indirect
Methods is more likely to grow rich than the fair Trader. L.
Oswald Le Winter
ENTOMBED NIGHT
Now the season's lost its sunny grace,
its skin tanned rust and mottled gray.
I wake in a tight, darkened space
to a dirge invisible musicians play.
I have my memories, when blood ran high.
Salt's on my lips as if I'd kissed the sea,
I know I left some place where seagulls cry
and frowning vultures leaf a tree.
Life was my shovel, Death a whitened bone.
I dug for love, a man wild for treasure,
and found only an old, broken stone
I stuck in a green heart, desiring that it grow.
With every thought, I took its measure.
The metamorphosis of Lapis is less slow.
Show me a Phoenix in his lambent nest,
reveal the field where Pegasus was tamed,
help seek a Unicorn, and I'll forego the rest.
No prize I've wanted, none I've claimed
ranks with the tear-filled eyes of the one face,
long vanished, that I stood before, ashamed,
trapped by a crippled dream in a deserted place.
THE WOMAN, LIKE RODIN'S THINKER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
for Martha Sharp
Another morning like the last four hundred, my mouth
a sty filled with swill as I awake at dawn after a jagged sleep.
The sky is dull, the color of sheets washed too often,
to no purpose. A breeze tickles the curtains
in the parted window. I left the television on all night again
and watch a moment as fresh disasters flicker across
the mute tube; carnage everywhere, man made
as well as natural. Late May in Lisbon is a verdict
for the senses of a man whose life tries to sustain him
despite failures, self-betrayals, and despair. In a half
open window in the house across the courtyard,
a woman leans her head on her left palm like a Rodin,
seeing nothing, perhaps just gazing inwardly,
or planning what to do this Sunday,
after church and before sleep. Suddenly,
from somewhere in the building
whose old walls carry sound like the wires
of a telephone, I hear Maria Callas sing Puccini's
O mio babbino caro from Gianni Schicchi.
Her voice consumes my senses and her emotion
finds its echo in me if only for a puff of minutes,
a few magnificent ticks, but I’m aroused enough
to know how this defeats death; a woman thinking,
another singing, enough to choose life for one more day.
DEATH OF A BULL RHINO
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ANGOLA, 1975
A slow barge seeking a safe harbor,
the Rhino moves into the water hole,
sending the sludge his legs stir up
in eddies to the surface. He moves
like a heavy dancer; muscles visible
beneath his hide, flex and relax
in a rhythm so well practiced
even his approaching end can't alter it.
The sign that death has entered
his huge frame to do its work,
is in the visible desertion of the flock
of small birds that have used his broad back
as an island in the muddy water.
With no talent for philosophy, or introspection,
and no intimation of its own mortality,
the Rhino senses, somehow, that the end
is near, that Death, in a time-span only I
can measure on my wrist, is growing larger
as his life evaporates from the no longer strong,
young body. I wonder why he's waded
into this forsaken hole? Is it to die unseen
by others of his kind? I've heard that Elephants
lumber off, sometimes, into thickets far
from the herd to await the end. Old as the Rhino,
and sick of hosting parasites disguised
as dreams, I feel death taking place in me.
RIDER MOUNTAIN
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The silver stream, limping past crumbling villages,
falls at the rocky hump of Rider Mountain
like a comet's dwindling tail into a hole
of matted green penumbras that swallow
the bright spread of sweating noon.
A ghost of girlish laughter is said to be audible,
grizzled imaginings of the few who stayed
despite the great abandonment,
remembering surprising deaths, the boat capsized,
the bodies sucked like bait into the deep.
The river never gave up its secret cache.
A century since that afternoon of futile diving,
of strong hands and legs wrestling the current
as if will stretched beyond collapsing
could tear three corpses from their bloated rest.
Legends have grown like lilies on the banks.
Some say the women, lusty, winsome, serve
a fallen angel deep in hell as concubines.
Others swear they live within the mountain,
safeguarding a treasure mined here long ago.
This region thrives on mysteries.
Its people's humble lives require that dying
be a miracle, like poems or epiphanies.
None claim such superstitions deserve less faith
than a frail Jew nailed to wood in Jerusalem.
CANCER DIARY
~~~~~~~~~~~~
for Jay Jay
Que la mort triomphait
dans cette voix etrange!
Mallarme
He is much less afraid of alien death
than of companionable dying;
of breath that creeps over clenched faces,
and cadaverous limbs vanishing
beneath a sheet into gradual inertia.
"how curious that my assassin
bears the name of an imaginary band
that girdles plastic globes, or of the tabloid
crab by which bored housewives banish
apprehensions of the future.."
Not the ultimate silence,
but the genuflecting voices of relatives
is the most difficult to bear; that
and the ashen eyes of friends sweeping
the room from behind modest flowers.
Not even the expected moment
in which the rattling breath gives up
and the shy family of hopes,
slips, like a priest in slippers, mumbling,
from the room is as unbearable.
Then there's nothing beyond tears that wet
red glances, and the dying of a fistful
of carnations, followed by a quiet stroll
to cueing limousines that speed us back
to lives more than ever now owed to time.
BENNINGTON, JULY 1955
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For Marta Gautier, who brought back the memory.
We barely closed our eyes at night,
sleeping three or four hours, but hardly
at rest; brief, deep, troubled.
For the remainder, we spied on the dark,
on winds traversing cirrus streamers
flat as laundry on heaven's ironing board.
There was the occasional late bird
with no nest, darting from one rooftop
to another in his appealing restlessness.
I sat by a window open to the garden
gazing at tall New England Asters,
diurnal flowers, A. novae-anglia,
six feet tall with silky, slender rays
In purple, white and red, surrounding
disks of orange filaments now invisible.
In the bed, below a sampler that proclaimed
"God is love" your almond-colored body
stretched like a jungle cat feigning sleep,
the regular breath of sated passion echoing
in the soft wind outside. We had made love,
and I wondered if that meant we were lovers.
I knew at dawn, the sun would open
the Starflowers like a carpet on which
butterflies could rest to lay their eggs.
I'd even seen Boloria astarte with orange-
brown wings that were invisible among these
flaming Michaelmas Daisies, if the dark
markings near the wings' bases had not betrayed
their presence, busily gluing new generations
to undersides of rosettes of leaves, and feeding
on treacly nectar at the flower's heart.
I knew that soon you'd rise, stretch
and return to your books and lectures,
interrupted for this night, and I'd become
the Aster, closed, almost sufficient in myself,
until the sun would unlock me as you did,
with love's fugacious radiance and heat.
Michelle McGrane
MONA LISA WAS A FEMINIST
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I think Mona Lisa
was a feminist. That
she had better things to do,
was itching
to get off her chair,
to involve herself
with a multitude
of interesting
occupations and
be done with
portrait painting pomposity.
She sat, still,
hands crossed over herself,
barely containing
her impatience, ready
to take flight
at moment's notice.
In keeping with
social expectation, however,
dear woman!,
she humoured the man,
pandered to his
artistic ego, even favoured him
with a wan smile that,
despite brave attempt,
could not conceal
the irritability in her eyes
at such flagrant
waste of time.
HOLY MAN
~~~~~~~~
i see you standing,
bright-faced, a solitary flame,
garbed in orange renunciation robes,
dark head shorn,
a public declaration
of your faith,
Holy Man, Holy One,
quench the fire
of my earthly desire.
with artistic, well-kept hands,
a disarmingly open smile,
you press
a thick religious tract
into
my outstretched palms,
Holy Man, Holy One,
quench the fire
of my earthly desire.
leafing idly
through this offering,
a softly accented voice
surprises me, sings to me,
swimming across
unreadable text,
oh Holy Man, Holy One,
quench the fire
of my earthly desire,
my earthly desire.
your candid brown eyes
reach up
through printed pages
to press
heavily
against
my dyslexic heart.
KAROO WAKING
~~~~~~~~~~~~
wind whistles, raucous, shrill,
rushing eagerly through cracks
in travelling windows,
the land of far plains sleeps,
a giant in repose
awaiting daybreak.
long and straight
ironed flat ribbon-road
tarmac stretches to horizon,
lightsun filters through
cool dawn welcome,
gentle terracotta washing sky.
bleached koppies, grey
scrub, fynbos, cacti,
awake with languor,
arms outstretched,
greeting land's return to light,
from day's heat, fleeting respite.
DAY OF MOON, NIGHT OF SUN
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"In this life it is not difficult to die
It is more difficult to live."
- Mayakovsky
Day of moon, Night of sun,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of darkness, Night of fire,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of flame, Night of ash,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of lion, Night of lamb,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of black, Night of white,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of steel, Night of blood,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of greed, Night of lies,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of domination, Night of misinformation,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of tanks, Night of missiles,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of marching, Night of weeping,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of fearful, Night of faithless,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of torture, Night of terror,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of birth, Night of death,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of madmen, Night of corpses,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of widows, Night of orphans,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of sandstorm, Night of smoke,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of thunder, Night of ruin,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of stone, Night of dust,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of sky, Night of earth,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
Day of me, Night of you,
Let us sing a Song of Peace.
shore dance
~~~~~~~~~~~
salt foam washes sand,
wet hemline watermarks
overlap,
gliding effortlessly
recede,
bubbles rise, break surface
to patterned mottled brown,
bottle-green, aqua,
ultramarine,
waves inlaid with
white quartz veins
roll forwards,
backwards,
in transient
shore dance.
travelling light
when i die,
don't bury me,
burn me,
how else does a
phoenix rise?
turn up the music,
throw a party,
dress in your
brightest clothes,
send me off
with rosettes of fireworks
arching high into night sky,
drink bottles of chilled
French champagne,
recite great poetry celebrating
joy of life.
scatter my ashes
at four corners of the globe,
i have loved this crazy world,
the giddy surprise
of unexpected discoveries
each day has brought me.
in my passing
let there be no mourning,
i have lived,
let me travel light.
Noah Cicero
In Solitude
~~~~~~~~~~~
I sat in the grass
Under a maple tree
I watched people walk by
They looked pretty wretched
When the sun went down
I was still sitting there
But there were no more people to watch
So I walked home
And sat at the kitchen table
And ate a sandwich
Rich People
~~~~~~~~~~~
I have a rich friend
He talks a lot
He dresses poor intentionally
Im poor
I dress poor because I have to
The Modern Age
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A lot of people enjoy seeing violence
They are captivated by murders
Wars
Suicides
Many disgusting things
Humans are strange animals
I dont like them very much
I prefer cats
The silence
~~~~~~~~~~~
I looked at her naked body
But it made no difference
I was still alone
Cars drove down my street
I watched them pass
I turned my lamp on
I read a book by the light
I put the book down
And walked outside
A cat was in the yard
Santiago Villafania
sonnet
~~~~~~
no more heartaches love when this lot is fled
when soft the church sings her holy hymns
then that is the time that i am dead
in this world with all of my dulcet dreams
if you will read this piece my love mind not
the voice behind it but treasure the things
that is gently drawn from my fevered heart
and i myself in your slumbered thought brings
back the memories with this scarlet verse
while i somehow half way am into dust
while my soul traverses the universe
though uncertain to where am i be cast
if i castaway am in darkness bare
always my love for you beyond compare
for us, who do not care
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(after Maya Angelou)
be me urchin
seek me shanty in Payatas
or under the LRT
bury me in tattered rugs
and paper blankets at night
while i dream me home
a family to call my own
swim me river defiled by men
whose soul is darker
than the waters of Pasig river
cross me streets of Manila
and breath me air thick
with smoke belched from buses
trucks and jeepneys
collect me garbage
high as a mountain
worst than Augean stables
in rainy days
walk me malls in broad daylight
where courtesans trade their bodies
for six-pence in a day
o give me
what future?
beyond forgetting
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
i
the winds
dry on my lips
without your tender kisses -
your stealing kisses O
the night is long
and dark as
the dark ages of the mind
and you are nowhere
nowhere my love
no bright eyes
to watch over me
no gentle hands
to stroke my raven hair O
the winds O the night
cold and forever
now that you are gone
ii.
a desire to paint you
becomes a haunting dream
in a moonlit night
the booze becomes you
teasing my lips
with bitter-sweet kisses
a desire to hold you
becomes a burning passion
on a cold satin bed
the pillow becomes you
bewitching my eyes
with your beauty O
you are not really here
blithe dream bright eyes
just a bottle of whiskey and I
(doppelganger)
(he) (is) (i) (am) (we) (are)
(in) (tears) (and) (laughter)
(the) (one) (who) (like) (any) (other)
(belongs) (to) (a) (certain) (melieux)
(he) (trying) (to) (exist)
(in) (a) (world) (of) (illusion)
(i) (trying) (to) (explore)
(that) (other) (dimension)
the drifter
~~~~~~~~~~~
he speaks to say nothing
and writes to isolate
the madness and maladies
he has failed to undercome
the world mocks him for what he is
and thus he lives for what he is not
an island.
Marjana Gaponenko
Kinder
~~~~~~
Wir waren Kinder und baumelten vergnügt an den Zweigen. Der Himmel hing uns
voller Schätze und wir schliffen unsere Holzdolche um zu ihnen zu gelangen.
Mutig kämpften wir gegen unsichtbare Feinde, fingen Schmetterlinge und
kleine Vögel, um sie feierlich loszulassen, lachten über die Küssenden,
jagten die Fremdlinge, brachten Kätzchen den Müttern nach Haus´, weinten
bitterlich aber kurz.
Wir waren sanfte Wölfe unter sanften Wölfen. Wie ein goldener Ball tönte
und rollte unsere lachende blauäugige Zeit durch die Wälder, die uns
gehörten und wir rannten Hals über Kopf, wir rannten ihr hinterher.
Plötzlich verschwand sie, ging verloren in den Blumen, in wilden Gräsern,
taute weg und ließ uns stehen, wo wir immer noch stehen:
erstarrt im Niederknien mit aufgerissenen Augen und wehenden Haaren, nah
dem Taumeln.
Children
~~~~~~~~
We were children dangling happily from branches. The heavens above beckoned
with treasures and we sharpened our wooden daggers to reach them. We fought
bravely against invisible enemies, caught butterflies and little birds, in
order to release them ceremoniously, we laughed at lovers kissing, chased
strangers, brought kittens back to their mothers, cried bitterly, if only
briefly.
We were docile wolfs among wolfs more docile than us. Like a golden ball
our laughing blue-eyed time echoed and rolled through the woods, our woods,
and we, running head over heals, ran after it. Suddenly it was gone, it got
lost among the flowers, lost in the wild grasses, melted away leaving us
standing where we still stand today, caught while kneeling down with eyes
wide open and hair blowing, almost stumbling.
Translated by Gunhild Muschenheim
Ich komme vom Meer.
Als ich geboren wurde,
lachte die Mutter, den Tod verfluchend
und zehntausend Katzen der Stadt jagten den September,
im Laufen seinen fliegenden Mantel zerkratzend.
September verschwindet jedes Mal wenn er kommt.
Er kann nichts dafür, dass sein Mantel fliegt.
Er hat mir gesagt: “Es ist genug Platz in meiner Brusttasche
für dich, Mädchen. Ich hole dich wie ein treuer Diener, reiße dich
aus den Klauen deines Tanzes. Auf immer. Denke nur an mich.“
September legt mir Kastanien und schlummernde Katzen unter die Tür.
Ein ungeduldiges Omen...
Mutter altert und nimmt Milch aus meinen Händen.
„Alles kommt zurück“
lacht sie unter Tränen.
September
When I was born, the mother laughed cursing death,
and the cities` tenthousand cats hunted for September
while running scratching his flowing coat
September vanishes each time he comes
He can not be blamed, that his coat flows
He had said to me:' For you girl there is enough room
in my breast pocket. I fetch you like a faithful servant,
tear you from the claws of your dance.
Forever. Just think of me.'
September places chestnuts and dormant cats under my door.
An impatient omen.
Mother grows old and takes milk from my hands.
'It all comes back' she laughs in tears.
Translated by Gunhild Muschenheim
David Sparenberg
SELF (The Weaver)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Say to yourself:
I am the cure
for what ails me
I am the world
out of balance
wherein is both
peace and war
I am the welter of chaos
in flames of pain
I am the creative impulse
fashioning crystals
transforming clouds
I am purgation
and integration
I am the work and the workman
Nothing is alien
to the weaver.
My heart is a crucible:
alchemical imagination.
I am center
and I am circumference
I am this
and I am that
I am eternity
and I am now
Written on wind
with a stylus of sun
I am dream
as well as dreamer
I am web
and I am hoop
I am tree
and seed polarity:
light in the womb
of earth-dark fruit.
Nothing is alien
to the weaver.
22 Jan. 2003
GOVINDA
~~~~~~~
This is where I blossom!
I am Govinda,
full of kisses.
Everything is real
and every reality is an illusion.
Like an eye of awareness
in an attentive circle.
A man is but a dream
dreaming of a man awakening.
When I speak,
I am not speaking.
This voice is not Govinda.
What you hear
is the beating of God's
cosmic heart, echoing
in your heartbeat ears.
How wonderful
is this creative dance
Govinda has forgotten,
yet cannot stop
being created in!
How wonderful
delirious and delicious
the cherry bowl of
fresh and scented kisses!
Peace comes like this,
when iron is broken
and there are no heroes.
Then hands are multiplied
through touching truth.
Here I am the
garden of some erotic
god or goddess
and am and am not
the river Ganges
or the man Govinda.
16-17 Feb. 03
IMAGES & DREAMS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you shine a light
the size and shape of a pinhole
into the innermost inward,
you wight catch a glimpse,
form and face
from the mythology of dreams,
of the world's most enchanting woman.
Her name is Rhioannon
or Deirdre
or perhabs Sioban.
But it might just be
Joan or Bridget
Diane or Jane.
If you shine a light
the size and shape of a pinhole
into the innermost inward
you might see
a wise old man,
a benevolent, ancient sage,
with elevated candle, lucent
or lantern, luminious, in hand.
He is called Lao Tzu.
(Or any such name.)
Now:
if you shine a light
the size and shape of a tiny pinhole
into the innermost inward
you might behold
the presence of a shadow,
a formulated darkness
from the deep-down of dreams.
This phantom is your own.
And you must own it
if you would be whole.
The shadow abides
behind the mirror of vanity,
in the cave primeval,
or in the fire-pit
of your secret soul.
27 March 2003
IN THE YEAR 2003
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am a non-American.
My soul belongs to God.
My senses surrender
to the wonderment and
creative elements of sublime nature.
My flesh identities
and is shared among
the peoples of this one-only-world.
Without discrimination,
I empathize and am bound
in just-affiniity with every
race and place,
with every age and gender,
with all species.
I am dialogue
and I am person
and a human being
stands up to become
the sanctuary of freedom.
I am equally free
of violence and hatred,
free of the will to power
free from nonsustainable
and obsessive possessions.
I freely belong
to no one group
more than to any other.
I am a free non-American,
existing here on earth,
in integrity
and voluntary simplicity.
So I will remain
from this day forward,
on the eve of war,
until the end of my days,
an activist
and advocate for peace.
It is shame
that first defines me,
but it is love
and the mystical heart of compassion
by which I live.
19 March 2003
BAGHDAD'S BURNING
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
These are not our children,
Nasiriya.
These are not the babies
going up in the sky.
Today is not the cradle
of mankind's freedom;
no time for fond farewells,
this is good-bye.
A thousand candles praying,
Nasiriya.
A thousand bombs on Baghdad
in one night.
The rivers in the red glow
of the war fires
reflect the tears of anguish
in your eyes.
No breath to stop and dream now,
Nasiriya.
The souls of bitter struggle
know no dreams.
Here where hell and heaven
are asunder,
the fears of infant angels
cannot hide.
Oh do not let your eyes
reach out and touch me...
Tomorrow is a promise
never kept.
A thousand bombs on Baghdad:
Baghdad's burning!
Although we are God's children,
Nasiriya,
no time for fond farwells,
this is good-bye.
22 March 2003
BREAD, WATER & OIL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here is bread.
Bread represents something good.
It says that the earth
is still tolerant of us,
that we may yet live
to see tomorrow.
Here is water.
Water tells us
that our needs transcend
our aggressive bodies;
that we are all flowing away
toward something uncertain.
Here too is oil,
a gift of the olive.
It was pressed from ripeness
into golden song.
The oil symbolizes peace.
It kisses our lips
when we sit down together.
6 April 2003
EARTH IS NOT HEAVEN
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Lord God descended.
And there was a house
and the house was one fire.
And tears from the eyes
of the Holy of Holies
hissed in the crackling
rage of conflagration.
And sweat dripped down
from the wings of angels.
Earth is not heaven;
hell is not far.
And the living Lord God
erupted and said:
"And I am Auschwitz
and you are abandoned.
And I am Hiroshima
and you are forlorn.
And I am the Congo
and you are forsaken.
And now I am Baghdad
and your's is the harm."
Earth is not heaven.
Hell is not far.
And the Lord falls in ashes
and we grow in thorns.
And sweat drips down
from the candles of angels.
And earth is not heaven.
And hell is not far.
10-11 April 2003

Melissa C. Mielke
grace's flute
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
she sounds like silver,
as her voice glistens through
the air at high and low tones,
waltzing, then
tapdancing, then
tiptoeing--
keeping perfect time.
she takes a breath,
then flutters across the sky,
reaching her accelerandos,
ritardandoes,
and fermatas.
a blind man falls asleep
with his young daughter in his arms,
as the glitter of music blends into
their lives, and smiling fireflies
somersault in their dreams,
as grace's flute continues to sing.

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